(or if you dissolve into molecules)
by pants2match
Summary: "Nine months, that's—that's not that long, I mean, you were gone for two years when you first started, right?" [alex/james bc i'm obsessed]


**a/n: originally part of the 30 day drabble challenge (the rest can be found on my ao3 - dilemmas) but i'm a little in love w it, and also it's long**

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"Nine months, that's—that's not that long, I mean, you were gone for two years when you first started, right?"

This was always going to be a possibility, and she's kind of shocked it's taken this long, really. Since she's known him he's always chosen to go away, a collective twenty-six months over five years, but now he's being called away and she's wishing he wasn't.

Moreover, she's wishing she _wasn't _wishingshe's wishing he wasn't. It's a mouthful, she knows. They're both obsessed with their work and they _know_ that; hell, it's part of the attraction… Except now she's hating it because it means he has to leave. (The district, the country, _her._)

(And he hates it too.)

"I told her I'd think about it."

—

They've only been together (together? It seems like the wrong word; _dating_ seems too juvenile, _seeing each other_ seems too casual, _in a relationship _seems too much,) for six months. Six, admittedly great, months, but still only six months.

She'd pushed him, pulled the linguist-communication card with a smirk, and he told her. _An old student of mine called. She's in Darfur right now, they need someone over there by the end of the month…_ They barely got to finish their conversation before he was called back to the ER, and then she's left on the other side of campus with this hanging over her head.

It's not like she can ask him to stay, it's not like she'd _want_ to ask him to stay (mostly, sort of), but the thought of letting him go just like _that_ (she'd actually snapped her fingers thinking about it) is making her nauseous. They haven't even been… _whatever_ for as long as he's going to be away, what gives her the right to ask him to stay? Or even want him to stay?

Alex is sat at her desk all of twenty seconds before she's up, pacing, and dialling his number.

_Hey, it's—it's me… Uh, do you want to get a drink or dinner or something tonight? I should be out of here by six so… Yeah, uh, call me back… Bye._

(Smooth, Alex.)

—

So a bar's possibly not the ideal place to have this conversation, it's loud and crowded and more than a little stuffy, but there's alcohol. Plus, it's a nice parallel to their accidental first date, because, really, if it's going to end, it might as well get tied up with a bow.

(She's tempted to order two PBRs. Something about Nietzsche, and danger, and bookends, and it's messy and doesn't make complete sense, but it occupies the twenty-two minutes she's sitting in the bar before James arrives. She'd got there early to set out her thoughts but that's obviously not what's happened.)

"Hey."

He leans down and kisses her like she had the first time; it's soft and lingering and barely more than a peck, but it has her heart fluttering and fingers itching just the same.

"Hey," she's pretty sure, and maybe a little grateful that he probably can't hear the way her voice wavers, "I got you a Heineken."

(So what if she's already on her second one?)

It's a while before they actually talk, neither of them have even really acknowledged that they both factor into the decision, the "Go Into An Active War Zone For Nine Months" decision, and it's still only an assumption on both their parts. Sure, they've been sharing meals and sleeping together (apparently and/or coincidentally) exclusively for a while now, but does that give her Close Friend status or Girlfriend status? And does that mean he's asking her because he wants her opinion or because he wants her to ask him to stay?

(They're both hoping it's the latter.)

Three and a half (he caught up) beers in she brings it up.

"Okay, you're killing me here…" she chews her lip a moment, "are you gonna go?"

"I…'m still thinking about it."

"Come on, that's basically universal for _no_," she leans down the table, hand mere inches from his. "James… you wouldn't have told me you were _thinking about it_ unless you wanted me to say something."

In a moment every line he has on his face is drawn into sharp creases, "I guess… I wanted you to say you didn't want me to go, but if you'—"

Her face is something akin to outrage.

"You thought I wouldn't want you to stay?" she baulks a laugh, "James, of course I don't want you to go!" He still looks confused as hell and she can't believe it, "but I'm not gonna _ask_ you to stay, James, I have _no_ _right_ to ask you to stop doing something you love—"

"I love _you_, Alex,"

She'd taken a swig as soon as he cut her off and it's about as close to a spit-take she's ever going to get. She splutters and chokes and it's a totally undignified display, to the point where there's tears in her eyes from coughing. He's slid around the booth and she's got his hand in a vice for a good twenty seconds before she's breathing normally again.

He's sure she's done until she jerks again.

There's a hand fisted in his shirt and fingers tracing the back of his neck and it's not until he feels her teeth graze the inside of his bottom lip that he realises, _no, she's fine_, and all but lifts her into his lap with arms around her lower back. They're slow and heedless and wholly enraptured in each other.

There's a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan and she know's they need to stop.

"James… mmm," he tugs her back into him, "I—mmm—love you—mm—" she keeps a hand firm on his chest this time, " too. But I don't think we get a free pass to fuck on a bar table unless you just put a ring on my finger," she rifles through her purse, "so unless you want a record for indecent exposure and lewd behaviour we need to get out of here," slams a fifty on the table, "now," and pulls him out of the booth.

—

She hums contented, sated and breathy, on her stomach in his bed. He'd left the door open, getting beer or water or juice or whatever the hell he'd offered, and she can see the trail of clothes leading out his bedroom. His place is smaller than hers, not by much, but enough that it's noticeable; enough that there's usually an excuse to be pressed up against each other. Plus, his insulation sucks, so even in May he's still got his duvet on and she's had to kick it down to the foot of the bed. She's still on her stomach, face in the pillow, when he walks back in, beers in hand.

He's quiet on the carpet, and she's too relaxed to notice his presence until the bed dips under his weight.

"We're not done talking, you know," it comes out muffled by the pillow and he considers feigning ignorance. He places the beers on the nightstand before moving across the bed, kissing up her shoulder blade until she groans.

"You sure? Because it seems like there's a pretty simple solution." She sighs from under him. "I stay."

She shifts, rolling over in one fluid movement.

"And what about next time?" He hovers above her and she crosses her ankles, "and the next time?" She lifts herself on her elbows, "and the time after that?" He gives, she has a point. "James, part of the reason I fell in love with you is because you live for your work; because you understand that I do too."

He smiles, "so we work something out?"

"Yep."

"Good talk?"

"Yep."

She hooks her arm around his neck and pulls him down to her, capturing his lips in hers and not letting go.

—

"You know, I get twenty-five days off a year, I could come home almost every week," he feels her brow lift against his chest, "wait, it's a twenty-plus hour flight… every few of weeks?" She snorts, turning her face further into his chest and she kisses there, just on his pectoral, "we could find a mid point, seven-eight hours each way?"

"Every few weeks?"

"Split it."

She thinks a moment, "three months on, a week and a bit off… do that twice and you're home,"

"Okay, so what's halfway between DC and Sudan?"

She pushes off his chest, sitting cross-legged next to him with the sheet hanging off one knee. Her grin is contagious, "Morocco."

—

_Final boarding call for Emirates Flight two-three-two to Dubai. Would all remaining passengers for this flight please report to gate B37._

She swallows the lump in her throat as they stand. They're not the only people in the gate waiting for the final call; there's a young couple attached at the hip, both stroking the just-swollen tummy between them; so they don't feel so bad about it. They embrace, entangle in each other and he groans as her lips meet his. She's grasping at his hair (he cut it, not by much) and pulling him down closer, further into her and she sigh into his mouth. _James_. His tongue slips back from her lips, and he's kissing down her jaw to her pulse point, lingering there for a moment before she knots her arms around his neck, face in his collar.

"James…"

"I know."

Her heart's beating out her chest and she has to breathe, deep and full, "James, you're gonna miss your plane."

"No I'm not," he makes his way back up her jaw.

"Yes you are."

—

She watches him as far down the catwalk as she can see before she flips her phone open.

_See you in 3 months_

_I love you_

_X_

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**a/n: don't even talk to me right now i am dying over how much i adore them (or at least my version of them) and then i got this whole ~*~baby you are gonna miss that plane~*~ thing stuck in my head, so yk, that's the sunset bit.**


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